I'm sick now, physically and mentally. I have not written anything and have not responded to anybody, I have been laying here doing nothing but feeling like loose shit is running through my body and my mind is being occupied by little handguns smiling and winking at me. The handguns glare whenever I try to write... in fact... one is looking at me right now. Yes, I notice you. You're a bastard gun and as soon as I recover you will disappear. Golden Earring songs will not save you, it is only a matter of time.
I am still sick though, very sick, and thankfully in this, the most powerful country in the world, I am well protected from being able to think clearly but I'm having a bit of trouble getting medical help, unless I start to die, in which case I must begin writing my will immediately. When I was a kid, I wanted to be cremated and my ashes shot out of a cannon. But Hunter S. Thompson apparently wanted the same thing, so I don't know anymore. Certainly I'd love it, but it would no longer be the path less traveled. I must think on this now.
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